


A Queen for the West

by wrennette



Series: Trashpile: A Compendium of Unfinished Fics [9]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 13:18:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11059800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrennette/pseuds/wrennette
Summary: In which the Horn of Gondor is actually Susan’s Horn. As the last Pevensie left in England, she is pulled to Boromir in his time of need. Her unerring arrows and unbreakable bow are there when she arrives, and she saves Boromir, then the two of them go with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli after the orcs.





	A Queen for the West

**Author's Note:**

> I have a special fondness for Susan, and therefore a tendency to try and find a space for her to be both a badass and a woman. This attempt didn't go very far, but at least she keeps Sean Bean from dying for a little while.

Susan gasped as she felt the otherworldly tingle of magic race over her skin. Her siblings, her family, had been killed six months before, and she had resisted until now going through their things. She had ghosted through the house, aimless and mute as any revenant. But finally she had tackled the unwelcome task, and had been sobbing ever since, looking over their things. Lucy’s awkward needlepoint pillow with a design meant to be Naiads, Peter and Edmund’s fencing gear, the letters from cousin Eustace on the matter of dragons. 

Her memories of Narnia had come rushing back with a vengeance, and she hated herself more everyday for pulling away, for shutting them out, for losing faith. Every night now, she prayed to Aslan, begging his forgiveness, begging him to take her home. But Aslan had answered not, at least, not until now. And at the feeling of magic that swirled around her, Queen Susan the Gentle smiled that beatific smile, and closed her eyes, and let it take her as it willed.

Opening her eyes as the magic solidified and then dispersed between two breaths, Susan found herself on a ridge, her bow and never empty quiver of red fletched arrows propped nearby. In the glade below, a single man fought desperately. A great white horn lay in pieces at his feet, and Susan knew the method of her arrival. 

As in the days of Caspian, her Horn had Called. She picked up her bow without question and began to fire at the foul creatures assailing the warrior below. With her picking them off from above, and the heroic fierceness of the blonde warrior, the band of creatures was soon either dead or withdrawing.

“Elendil!” came a war cry from one side, and another band of fighters entered the fray. Susan stayed her hand, hoping them friends, and they soon proved her right, laying into the enemy with a will. Picking up her quiver from where it had been stuck upright near her leg, Susan buckled it on and started down, keeping her eyes and ears open and loosing no few arrows into not yet dead enemies as she approached the warriors she had been Called to assist. 

Picking her way through the fallen was no easy task in heels and a knee length skirt. While she was glad to have an adventure, she was certain by now that this was not Narnia, and she was not dressed for adventuring. Aslan had sent her here though, and she would do as He required. It was clear that she was meant to help the man who had summoned her with the Horn, and so she stood before him, curtseying slightly, but not overmuch. She was after all, a Queen.

“Where did you come from?” the man asked, his tone somewhat wonderstruck, and Susan could not help her grin. 

“England,” Susan answered, and his face screwed into the most wonderfully confused expression that she could not help a light little laugh at his expense. “In a time long past, or another world perhaps, that horn was given to me. When it is blown in time of greatest need, The Great Lion Calls forth across space and time, and help is granted. I am Susan of Narnia,” she introduced herself.

“Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor,” the blonde man answered with a courtly obedience, still dazed. “You shoot with great skill my lady, as great perhaps as our friend elf,” he said, nodding at the tall, slender blonde archer who had come later into the fight. Susan curtseyed again, wondering what sort of creature an elf might be in this land - they did not have such things in Narnia, and he certainly didn’t look like the fairytale creatures who helped Father Christmas.

“Well met friend elf,” Susan greeted.

“Legolas Thranduilion, of Greenwood the Great,” the elf introduced himself in turn. “This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Ranger of the North and Uncrowned King of Gondor, and this is Gimli the Dwarf, son of Gloin.”

“Well met your highness, friend dwarf,” Susan said politely. “If it please you,” she continued, using the courtly speech they had all acquired in the days of the Four Monarchs, “what is your quest?”

“The halflings!” Boromir exclaimed, and the others began to look about. 

“Two taken,” Legolas called a few minutes later, pointing to a crashing trail through the woods.

“Frodo?” Aragorn asked, his tone grave.

“Nay,” Boromir said painedly. “Frodo and Sam I sent away - I - I was tempted, sorely tempted, but I managed to let them go. It will be Pippin and Merry that are taken,” he said.

“Then our path is clear,” Susan said, shifting her quiver to her back and deftly slipping her bow into the carrying straps. “If these creatures have your friends, I do not think they will be hale and hearty long. We must accomplish their emancipation.”

“Just so miss, just so,” Gimli said somewhat admiringly. 

“I shall need boots,” Susan sighed, looking at her heels. “And trousers, of one sort or another.” The others looked at her outfit, and as one blushed heatedly at the sight of her stocking clad legs. Judging by their costumes, Susan thought things here must be more or less like Narnia, where the clothing was what would have passed for medieval in her native world. Still, she had always liked Narnian costume, especially as the tailors there, knowing her and Lucy’s tastes, could create voluminous floor length skirts that were still comfortable enough to ride to battle in. 

“I have a spare set of clothes,” Legolas offered. “I don’t know what we’ll do for boots, and the clothes will be large on you, but they are of better quality than anything made by men.” This last was said with a tone that was somewhere between smug and joking, and Aragorn swatted the elf without compunction, illustrating that it was an old joke between them.

“I thank you kindly,” Susan said. “I can be ready in a few minutes.” 

“I will start tracking them,” Aragorn said grimly. “You will shortly catch me up, no doubt.” The others nodded, and Susan followed the elf back to their camp. There the others put together their own belongings, readying for fast travel. They consolidated the packs of their two kidnapped fellows, passing the other pack to Susan along with a light blanket and a few other necessities. She changed and packed efficiently, remembering well this routine from the long march from Beruna to Cair Paravel.

Soon they set out at a blistering pace, Susan’s heels traded in for a rough wrapping of rags and leather strapping. It was better than nothing, although not terribly comfortable. Still, she did not complain, and gave her companions no cause to complain of her. She loped quietly and tirelessly on at the side of Boromir, her raven tresses caught back in a series of elaborate plaits, her bow and quiver fixed at her back, a dagger at her hip.

They broke their fast on a sweet tasting waybread that Legolas named Lembas, a gift, Boromir said, from Galadriel, an Elven Queen in far Lothlorien. They rested little, and soon were on the trail again. Like tireless hounds they ran their quarry down, the four natives of this world educating Susan as they loped on. Gimli was the slowest of them, and Legolas the fleetest, seeming at times as if his feet but skimmed the ground. Susan was no sloth herself though, and kept pace with Aragorn and Boromir easily, and was lighter on her feet to boot.

In time, forest gave way to broad grassy plains, and there, they met the Rohirrim. Their mounts looked almost intelligent enough to be Talking Horses, although they were not, and Susan’s gentle diplomacy kept them from being summarily put to the sword. The leader of the Rohirrim, Eomer Eagid, was a young, proud man, who reminded Susan very much of her brothers. He had Peter’s stubbornness and golden hair, and Edmund’s ingrained sense of right and wrong. 

Despite his wish to assist them in their quest, Eomer brought them to the capital city of Edoras. There, in the Golden Hall, Susan met one of her own kind - or rather - there she met a woman with whom she felt immediate kindred. Eowyn, Eomer’s sister, was trained, like Susan, for battle, and wished to retain her independence. The two women walked much together in the short time that the Fellowship was in Rohan, and when they went on, Susan travelled in Eowyn’s clothes and armed with her spare weaponry.

**Author's Note:**

> reformatted from a chapter in a multifandom fic to standalone. If you commented on the previous fic, thank you, I appreciate it even though the comments have been deleted.


End file.
